Harry Dresden: The First Chronicles
by Durza II
Summary: I'm Harry Dresden. I live in Chicago. And, oh, i'm a Wizard. My life isn't great. In fact, it sucks. But i try to get by. Not easy when someone's always trying to kill me. But that's life for you, i guess. My life, at least. Read on at your own peril...
1. Volume 1 Chapter 1: The New Case

There was a knock at the door. I looked up from the book I was reading. It was old, practically ancient. But you know what they say: Never judge a book by its cover. And in the case of this book, that was the holy truth. This seemingly insignificant pocket book had been written just over sixty years ago, at the end of World War II. From what I understood, the author had been Wiccan, with very little power. But he had enough to see the way technology sometimes behaved around him and other practitioners of the Art. Usually people like him, people without much power, live more in the mortal world than in the supernatural community. He'd been a scientist, specifically a physicist. A certified genius, he'd been at the head of all of Hitler's secret projects. And that was how he got the resources and experiments to write and sort his theories on how magic and technology weren't opposing forces so much as disagreeable toddlers. Even toddlers learn to work together if it means getting something they want. So he'd theorized that magic could be used in the manufacture of technology, and by doing so the technology would not longer react adversely to the "electromagnetic pulse emitted by Practitioners". It was a sound piece of logic, and very intriguing. I did not know of many people with the power who had thought this way, and of those few none were powerful enough to be wizards. I had developed the same kind of theories years back when I started my A Levels, and going to University had only added zeal to my thoughts. I had made some headway in the department, but I was neither the smartest nor the oldest wizard/scientist. The theories in this seemingly harmless book were amazing. The guy had been a true genius. Just thinking about putting some of the theories he'd had in practice made me smile evilly. Monsters, beware. Harry Dresden would soon have better toys with bigger bangs.

I put a bookmark on my page before going to answer the door. It was still one thirty, a whole hour before my client showed up. Judging by the shadow I could see from under the door, this person was male. It was probably the mailman, then. I opened the door to a young, strongly built man of average height. That basically meant I had to look down to see his face and he had to look up. I'm very tall. The man had a bunch of letters in his right hand. There was smile on his face. I sighed inwardly. I didn't even have to read his facial and body expression to guess what he was going to say. It was always like this, the first time. But then something supernatural happened (like a ghost haunting its former family or a ghoul or some other nasty being killing loved ones) and then they would call me. They wouldn't be laughing then, let me tell you.

"Harry Dresden?" the guy asked.

"That's what the sign on my door says," I said nodding. The guy looked at my sign, his smile widening. My sign read;

Harry Dresden - Wizard

Lost items found. Paranormal Investigations.

Consulting. Advice. Reasonable Rates.

No Love Potions, Endless Purses, or

Other Entertainment.

"Are you a real wizard?" the guy asked. I nodded again.

"As in magical disappearances and making bunnies appear?"

"No, that's stage magic," I said. I frowned. "Actually," I amended, "I could probably do that if I wanted, and if I was paid enough. Those kinds of spells aren't done lightly." He laughed an amused laugh and I could see him categorizing me as a charlatan or a lunatic in his mind, and I also knew he was going to tell some funny anecdotes about this brief meeting later tonight at the bar with his friend. Oh well. The price of advertising something mortals weren't really ready to buy yet, I guess. I made to take my mail but he kept a tight grip on them.

"Could you show me something?" he asked. I smiled at him.

"Of course," I replied. "I can make you disappear." The guy leaned forward slightly in anticipation. A laugh started building up inside me. How stupid was this kid? This kind of thing happens in movies and TV shows all the time. The real magician or wizard or warlock or genie or whatever-the-hell-it-is in the show does the same thing to the guy from next door or the pizza guy or whoever-the-hell-the-person-is in the show, and the results are always the same.

I stepped a bit closer, and the guy leaned in some more. I suddenly pulled my mail out of his hands. He may have been solidly built (most kids were these days, and personally I blamed all those TV ads for gyms) but I am by no means a lightweight. My life is proof of that. I grabbed my mail and suddenly stepped back. The guy was slightly off-balance and he started falling toward me. I saw his hands reach up to break his fall. I closed the door on him. I heard a dull thud and a groan, followed by a lot of dirty sailor-talk. Tut tut. I let out the laugh that had been building. It was good to be laughing again.

It had been a rough last month. On top of Morgan harassing me more than usual (which I would later give me pause to think as I worked on my next case), I'd been tied up with three different cases that had evolved into even bigger problems than first imagined (as they do), and most of my funds had been depleted due to Larry Fowler, the host of the _Larry Fowler Show_, suing me for property damage. I'd been tied up so much I'd barely slept. But Morgan seemed to have taken a vacation for the moment, I'd solved my cases, I had received a substantial amount of money for my cases and I'd quashed Larry Fowler's law suit, with a little help from my frequent employer. All in all, I had every right to be happy.

Now, you hear people saying this. After so long in the business, I would have to agree with the advice. When things are going good, do not, under _any_ circumstances, jinx it all by challenging Lady Fate. You won't win. She's a temperamental mistress, and I should know. But I, lost in the giddy depths of my happiness, had just looked the metaphorical gift horse in the metaphorical mouth. I had come out of a bad situation – or rather situa_tions_ – with all my limbs attached (especially my head) and still didn't know enough not to go around giving the finger to the universe. The universe doesn't like me much, in case you didn't know. Just goes to show you that no matter who you are or what you've been through, if you are human then you are bound to make a tiny mistake that could ruin everything.

The phone rang. I went and picked it up.

"Dresden," I answered.

"How quickly can you get to the Madison?" an authoritative female voice asked.

"It's only a few blocks from my office," I replied.

"Get here now."

"Am I on the clock?" I asked.

"Definitely." That wasn't good. I mean, the prospective of getting money wasn't the bad part. The bad part was that the person signing my paycheck wasn't usually so … agreeable.

"I'll be there in ten minutes," I said and hung up. I frowned down at the phone. I had that kind of feeling that always seemed to manifest when things started going wrong. I hoped I was wrong – which to be truthful I rarely am – but I had a feeling I was getting myself into a horrendous situation. Again.

XXX

My name is Harry Blackstone Copperfield Dresden. My father, Malcolm Dresden, named me after three of the greatest stage magicians to set foot on this earth; Harry Houdini; Harry Blackstone, Senior; and David Copperfield. In my opinion, my father named me after four of the greatest stage magicians to ever set foot on this earth. My father was a stage magician himself, a very good one, and that's not a son's pride talking. Go to any library (or the internet if you are a child of this technologically advanced generation) and look up Malcolm Dresden. He was a certified genius. When it came to amazing an audience my father had an almost supernatural flair for it (and once again I should know). The tricks he could think up simply stunned many an audiences into silence. But, like I grew up to be, my father was a hopeless Quixote. He saw people in pain and wanted to help. So instead of going to Vegas like so many others in search of fame and fortune, he became a road magician. He went to hospitals and orphanages and the like, performing for the sick and the less fortunate. To him, a child or an old man with no happiness in their lives and no discernable future, making them smile and see the good in life was worth more than a heap of money. As a child I'd mostly disagreed with that notion. Screw those people, what about me? But as time moved on I started to see the good my father was doing, and I think some part of me wanted nothing more than to be like him. Cliché, I know, but you just had to see him at work to see he was brilliance and philanthropy in a jar.

The Madison is an expensive looking hotel. You know the type you see in movies? All glossy floors and shiny surfaces and hotel staff that all look like they could have been models. Murphy was waiting for me at the front entrance. How does one describe Murphy? Well, she's five foot nothing, a hundred pounds nothing, a deadly marksman, a fourth degree black belt in karate and aikido, intelligent, a lieutenant in the Chicago Police Department Special Investigations division, has blonde hair, has baby blue eyes, has a cute nose, has a killer ass, is very independent and determined, and will break several of my bones if she knew I even thought of her like this. I went to her and she beckoned me to follow without a word. I took it in stride and started for the swinging doors. After having to fight her way up a male dominated ladder, she did not appreciate being treated like she couldn't take care of herself. But I, always the perfect gentleman, wouldn't have any of that. I like treating women like ladies. It's in my quixotic nature. We raced to the doors, our old ritual. But I am very tall and very fast. Despite all her skills, Murphy had no chance against a naturally faster opponent. I got there first and opened the door for her with a small bow. She spared me a glare before walking into the hotel.

The crime scene was in the penthouse suite. The entire place was crawling with coppers and forensic investigators. Murphy gestured toward the open door and I walked into the room.

"See what you make of this," she murmured. Something was horribly wrong with this scene, I knew. The first clue was Murphy's attitude. She was way too subdued for this to be a normal crime scene. I gave a nod and took out a pair of glasses from my jacket pocket. They were circular, the lenses were heavily tinted with yellow, wire rimmed and they had wraparound metal caps on the outer edges. I put them on. These weren't normal glasses, as you might have guessed. Very few people go around wearing such strange spectacles without good reason. I made these glasses myself. It had taken me a few months to gather the materials and ingredients I needed to make them and enchant them but it was worth it. First and foremost, these glasses prevented me from initiating or being trapped in a soulgaze.

A soulgaze happens when a wizard looks into your eyes. As the name suggests, both parties must have a soul for it to work. Once a wizard looks into your eyes, just for a couple of seconds, the two are instantly trapped. They view each other's souls. There is no hiding who you really are in a soulgaze. Everything is laid bare. Soulgazes, although they feel like they last forever, only last about two or three seconds in real life. When you are battling a ghoul or some other supernatural monster, three seconds can be the difference between life and death.

The second thing I'd enchanted these glasses to do was to see past any veil. Of course, there is no such thing as a tool that can pierce any veil. Some creatures are made to veil. But that's not the point. The point is that when I made these glasses that had been my intent. That was what I wanted the glasses to do. That had been my belief. In magic, belief is everything.

Thirdly, these glasses improved my own natural sight. This was a two way thing. First of all, the glasses themselves allowed the wearer to be able to see further than normal and to be able to see in greater detail. They also worked on my eyes, actually altering their biological makeup. I naturally have twenty-ten vision so it's safe to say I don't need glasses, but these glasses altered my eyesight so that it was better than normal. This was dangerous magic. Altering the human body is a tricky business. You need the right kind of know how and skill for this, which I thankfully have. But it was a slow process, if it was to work properly. I didn't want to blow up my own eyes or end up with mutated ones. It would probably be a decade before my vision transcended human. You might ask why I would do such a thing. My answer would be that if you knew anything about my life, about my business, you wouldn't need to ask. I constantly tangle with creatures of the _other_. Anything that can improve my chances of surviving dangerous scenarios is welcome to my arsenal.

I looked around the room. I could tell forensics hadn't touched anything. Everything seemed like it was naturally there. I walked in and started looking through every inch of the front room and the bathroom. I didn't want to see the bodies yet so I left the bedroom out. I looked at everything for ten silent minutes before I started putting things together.

"A male, around forty years old," I said out loud. "Well built. Just over average height … and an enforcer of some kind, possibly military. A female, around thirty years old … average height … slim. She was an escort… But they both knew each other. Now that's strange," I murmured. "They got here at around ten, ate a meal, set the mood with some music and then hit the sack for about twenty minutes before … whatever happened to them happened."

"And how do you know this? Your wizard powers?"

"You don't have to be so negative about it, Carmichael," I replied as I turned round. Ronald Carmichael was Murphy's partner. He was overweight, in his thirties, always wore the kind of suits and a trench coat you saw in detective TV shows, and had permanent food stains on his flamboyant ties. All of this served to hide a razor sharp intellect. Carmichael was no one's fool. "And to answer your question, no, it's not my wizarding powers. It's just simple observation. The clothes told me about what they looked like. The woman's blouse has a logo I recognise. Not from experience, that is. I just recognised it. It was in the papers! … Oh, whatever, Carmichael. Anyway, the way everything is set out in here, it feels like how a couple would live. They knew each other very well. Also the CD player's stuck in a loop. The CD case says the tracks lasted half an hour and yet it loops back to the beginning after every ten minutes. That's when the magic happened, literally." Carmichael rolled his eyes at that. He was a skeptic.

"Good," Murphy said as she closed her notebook. "Now let's take a look at the bodies."

They were on the bed. Naked. The woman was on top. The guy had his hands around her hips. Both of their faces were clouded over in complete lust and utter pleasure. Sheesh. I couldn't remember the last time I'd been like that. I blinked. I looked closer at their posture. The way she was straddling him, she'd have to have fallen over when they died. Something was propping her up. I blinked again and looked at Carmichael, who was firmly looking away, and then at Murphy, who was also looking away with a faint blush. I couldn't believe this. The guy was still hard. I coughed and concentrated on the scene.

The female and the male had big holes where their hearts had been. It looked like their hearts had simply exploded. Spontaneous human combustion. Absolutely impossible. Not without help, at least.

"They were killed with magic," I murmured. That kind of spell isn't easy, let me tell you. First of all the killer needed some hair or nail clippings or blood to make a connection to the victims, and then he would need major mojo to complete the spell. It was possible to do it without a focus, but very difficult. Even I would need some preparation time for that. While I knew I was strong enough to have done something like this, very few people in the world could. So either someone out there had major juice or else had gotten the power from someone or somewhere else. Scary thought. Things that usually grant mortals power aren't interested in our well being. I told Murphy as much.

"Isn't this against your magic laws?" Murphy asked. I nodded. It looked like I had a warlock on my hands and what's more, a powerful one.

"Aw, come on Murph," Carmichael said. "You possibly can't be buying into this horseshit. He's jerking' our chain."

"My job is to protect this city, Carmichael," Murphy said, her eyes boring into his. "Even if it means I have to chase down shoddy leads, I'll do it."

"But come on, boss…" Carmichael pleading, his tone less pleading and more resigned. They'd had this argument before, and always with the same results. Murphy ignored him.

"Go on, Harry," she said as she led us out of the bedroom.

I put my hands in my trouser pockets and gave her my evaluation, completely ignoring Carmichael's skeptical ad libs. There was only one way someone had done this; Thaumaturgy, as in voodoo dolls kind of stuff. Make something happen on a small scale, feed in some power, and hey presto! It would happen on a larger scale to your intended target. The killer would have needed something from both of them in order to commit the murder, like blood or nail clippings or hair. I had noticed that the woman's hair was darker at the roots, so she'd had it dyed. Wherever she'd gone for her styling was a good place to start looking for more clues. Lastly, because of the way magic works, the killer knew both victims. It simply wasn't possible to work this kind of magic without any kind of connection between killer and victim. And from experience and my gut instinct, the killer had to be female. The kind of power needed for the spell, specifically the emotional strength i.e. hatred for the man, the woman, or both, was something witches were simply better at than wizards. Trust me on this, witches are just plain meaner than wizards. And for her to have picked a moment when they were having sex and charged up with lust, she'd definitely had to know the victims. And to be able to reach inside the man and woman and kill them in that fashion … yep, it was definitely a personal vendetta. I was thinking a scorned lover, maybe.

"You keep saying "she"," Murphy commented, glaring at me. "Why the hell would you think that?"

I shrugged my shoulders. "I told you. Witches are meaner than wizards. Women are able to hate more, and are able to let it go easier. It just feels like a female thing to me."

"A man could have done it though?"

I shrugged again. "Well," I hedged.

"You're such a chauvinistic pig, Dresden. Let me rephrase: Is this something only a woman could do?"

I paused before replying. "I guess not," I finally replied.

"For fifty bucks an hour that's the best you can do?" Carmichael said.

A slight scowl formed on my lips. These two were pushing me in a direction I did not want to go. "I haven't exactly worked through the specifics of heart explosion, you know, but I assure you the first instance I have the occasion to do so, you'll be the first to know." My voice dripped with sarcasm. Murphy ignored it.

"When can you tell me something?"

"I don't know," I said, and before she could ask another question I explained. "You can't time this kind of stuff, Murph. I don't know if I'm even able to do something like this, let alone how long it will take." I carefully kept my expression static, unchanged.

"This is bullshit," Carmichael growled.

I ignored him and looked toward the bedroom. "What I'm interested in is how Tommy Tomm's boss will handle this." The room went stock still. Carmichael's eyes narrowed and Murphy's body went rigid. They hadn't expected me to know.

"How do you know?" Murphy asked. I knew what she was thinking. If I knew Tommy Tomm and someone gave me enough money, I could be the potential killer.

"Don't get trigger happy, Murphy," I said. "I've met Tommy Tomm before. Ran into him with that double homicide you wanted my help with."

"And you didn't tell me because…?"

"He had nothing to do with it. The idiot tried to muscle me off the case and keep my mouth shut. He didn't want to be associated with the case. He was keeping a low profile. No one wants an enforcer who's had a run in with the law. Draws too much attention. I showed him his error in judgement." As I said that I smiled. Tommy Tomm had been expecting a soft target he could lean on. I'd been anything but. Murphy took one look at my smile and looked away. I stopped smiling. I can't help that sometimes I naturally behave like a predator. I'd learned to either hunt or be hunted. I guess it still showed in my personality.

"Go and get me a coffee, Carmichael," Murphy said. She looked hard into his eyes, her posture hard. Carmichael threw his hands up in frustration and walked out of the room. Murphy sighed and turned back to me. "He's a good cop," she said.

"I know," I replied. "Why do you think I tolerate him? So who's the woman?"

Murphy raised an eyebrow. "Jennifer Stanton."

"And she worked for the Velvet Room," I murmured. "Interesting." The Velvet Room was run by a vampiress named Bianca. She had a lot of influence and power both in Chicago and in the Nevernever. Could she be involved? Possibly. I looked at Murphy. She looked more worn out than usual. I told her as much.

"I am tired," Murphy said. "The world seems to have gone crazy. No one at the station looks me in the eye anymore. Even Carmichael thinks I've gone over the edge. But I get so frustrated with those people who think we've learnt everything in the past century, and all those cops who are either too blind or too scared to see what's happening in front of their eyes. No one wants to believe."

"And do you believe?" I asked neutrally.

"Me? I don't know. My world seems to be falling apart at the seams. If no one wanted to believe in sorcerers and elves and whatnot, it's just like people to close their eyes and rationalize their existence away. I can buy that we're just now starting to see the things around us in the dark again. It appeals to the cynic in me." We both laughed at that.

"Harry?"

"Yeah?"

"Why did you lie to me about not being able to find out how this was done?"

I managed to keep my facial expression the same. I'd hoped she hadn't noticed my little side-step. The truth is that I'm not really good at the lying thing. I just can't carry it off the way other people can. Sometimes I can do it, and rest … well. I sighed inwardly. Ever since Justin's death I'd had the sword of Damocles hanging over my head, ready to fall the next time I broke one of the Laws of Magic. Virtually no one on the Council liked me. If they even got a hint of what I was up to that sword would fall quickly and cleanly.

"Murphy," I said. "I can't try to figure this spell out. I can't go putting together the ingredients for a spell like this one. You don't understand."

Murphy's eyes turned to steel. "Oh, I understand. I understand that I've got a killer loose that I can't stop and catch in the act. I understand that you know something that can help, or you can at least find out something. And I understand that if you dry up on me now, I'm tearing your card out of the department Rolodex and tossing it in the trash."

I sighed. Shit. How could I explain it to her?

"Harry, I need your help on this. Please." Oh, now that just wasn't fair. The classic lady-in-distress routine. And I knew I was going to fall for it.

"Fine," I said through clenched teeth and walked out of there.

XXX

It was only a twenty minute walk minute walk to my office but I decided to jog there and have time to prepare for my client. People always expected something when dealing with wizards. Lights, lots of smoke and a lot of mysticism. I set off at an easy sprint. That's the benefit of having long legs and a lean, muscular body. I imagined that I looked cool, my duster flowing behind me in my wake and my wide-brimmed fedora rippling on my head, covering most of my features. I think I spend too much time in my own company. Or Bob's, for that matter. It's much easier to blame something very few other people can converse with.

I noticed them after a minute's running. When it comes to being fit, very few people are in my league, and that's no boast. Years in the business have ensured that I can run away on demand, for long periods of time. Added to my natural height, it makes it very easy to spot anyone trying to follow me when I'm on the move. There were two of them. They were wearing casual jogging clothes, tracksuits and sneakers. I could tell from the way they were huffing and puffing that they'd been struggling to keep me in sight. I quickly reviewed my memories from when I came out of the hotel and realised they had been waiting for me. That didn't bode very well. I kept on running but slowed my pace. I was within three blocks of my apartment before they finally caught up. They were panting heavily and one of them even leaned against a wall for support. I looked at them with a curious expression. Because of my fedora hat and glasses, the most anyone can see of my face, at most times, is my mouth, and since I love smiling so much, my teeth. I'd learnt long ago that smiling usually disturbs your opponents. It communicated that you know something they don't. A car pulled up beside me. I didn't turn to face it but continued to look at the two gentlemen.

"Can I help you?" I asked politely.

"Get in the car," Goon number one growled. Goon number two growled the affirmative, although it sounded more like a wheeze with the way he was struggling to breathe.

"I'm sorry?" I asked again, ever the polite gentleman.

"Get in the car," a new voice growled, and this one oozed with command. I looked left and saw that the driver for the car that had pulled up had gotten out. He was nearly as tall as me, which is saying something, and he looked like he was three hundred pounds of pure muscle. He had red hair, in a crew cut, and cold calculating eyes. Taking him out would prove a little more difficult than taking out the average thug, I assessed. He looked like he knew how to handle himself, probably an ex-commando of some sort. I cocked my head to one side and gave him a small smile.

"That's not very polite," I said.

"I agree, Mister Dresden," a voice said from the open back window of the car. It was male, maybe late thirties. Smooth and commanding, with a hint of amusement. "Mister Hendricks and his associates are somewhat eager individuals. Please forgive them. I had hoped to catch you outside of the Madison but your abrupt exit made it somewhat problematic. Would you please allow me to convey you the rest of the way to your office, Mister Dresden?" I smiled.

"Since you asked so nicely," I said. I got into the back of the car, and goon number one and two got in the front, along with He-Man the driver. It was one of those mafia cars you see in movies, not quite a limo but resembling it. It was made with reinforced steel I noticed. I sat just opposite the only other person in the back, not looking at him. I surveyed the interior, once. Classy. I looked at the other passenger.

"Well," I said, "I expected to see you soon, but not this soon, Mister Marcone." I could instantly see that I had caught him off guard. To his credit he masked it well. But I was good at reading people. It wasn't that I recognised him – very few people in Chicago and practically the whole of the United States knew Gentleman Johnnie Marcone on sight. He was one of the biggest crime lords in the States. A few months ago the Vargassi family had fallen to infighting after the head honcho had snuffed it. From that little war John Marcone had risen and taken control. The crime rates in Chicago and the United States had fallen by sixty percent and ten percent respectively. Marcone fancied himself a gentleman, as the name suggested, and conducted business in a proper and civilized manner. He was still a scumbag, but a respectable one. No, what had lightly offset Marcone was that I had been expecting him. That meant that I knew why he wanted to see me. It meant that I knew the male victim was one of Marcone's men called Tommy Tomm.

"Really, Mister Dresden? I heard you were smart."

"So to what do I owe this ride?" I asked.

"A business proposition," Marcone said at once. "I will pay you a retainer and then a week's worth of wages."

"In exchange for what?"

"You walk away from this case. Stay home for a week. Relax. Enjoy a break. According to my sources you need it. It's been a very rough last month for you."

"No," I said.

"No?"

"I'm not in the habit of repeating myself, Mister Marcone." Marcone's smile instantly became cold.

"I urge you to reconsider, Mister Dresden. One of my people was killed and I'm going to find out who is responsible. I wouldn't want anyone getting in the way."

"It sounds to me like you have just described Murphy and her SI division. We certainly wouldn't want anything bad to happen to them." I kept my voice calm and neutral, but the threat was there all the same. Marcone regarded me, his face still cold. I met his eyes. I instantly knew that he had wanted to engage in a soulgaze. That set alarm bells ringing. Most people knew weird things happened when you looked in a wizard's eyes, but very few straights actually knew exactly what happened. Marcone was no normal straight. He knew things. I could tell. But because I had my glasses on, no soulgaze started. I could feel it tugging, wanting to initiate but my glasses stopped it. Marcone was again caught off guard, and again masked it well. I took off my glasses and looked him straight in the eye. The soulgaze started immediately. What I saw in Marcone was a scholar, a fatherly figure, a gentleman, a survivor and a warrior. He was good to his word but crossing him was not advisable. Now I knew why he wanted me out of the way. Getting me out of the way would take away the only person who could help the police on this case. Without me, the police wouldn't be an issue to him. And then he could find the person who was disrespecting him and take them out. There was another interesting tidbit I learned from the soulgaze. Soulgazes are not like printouts that you can examine intently. There are more like flashes of emotion or visions. But I saw that Marcone had connected a new drug called "Three Eye" to Tommy Tomm's murder. One last thing before the soul gaze ended, I saw that Marcone had a terrible secret he kept. There was something in his past that motivated him to become what he was. Something that gave him strength. Very interesting.

Despite the fact that I had initiated the soulgaze, however, when I came out of it I instantly realised that Marcone had learnt more about me than I about him. I smiled as I put my glasses back on.

"You're an interesting man, Mister Marcone."

"You too, Mister Dresden." Marcone looked unruffled but I could tell that deep down he was unnerved. Whatever he had seen inside me during the soulgaze had blown away his usual calm. I couldn't blame him. My past isn't exactly all flowers and daisies. And personally, I wouldn't want to see my own soul either.

"Thanks for the ride, Mister Marcone."

"You're welcome, Mister Dresden. And think about my proposition." I got out of the car and went up to my office. Things had become interesting.

XXX

My client was a middle aged female. She was beautiful; her beauty only marred by worry the lines on her face.

"Hello, Mister Dresden," she said as I helped her into her chair. The perfect gentleman.

"Hello, ma'am. What can I call you?" she already seemed nervous, and no one goes and sees a wizard without finding out something. I saw debate whether or not to tell me her name. She was afraid of telling me her full name. To be fair, she had every right to be afraid. A name gained from the lips of the owner has power. Someone in the know, like me, could use that name against them almost as well as blood or hair or nail clippings.

"You may call me Monica."

"Very well, Monica. How can I help you?"

"I've lost something," she said, not looking at me. Typical straight behaviour.

"Finding lost items is one of my specialties. What am I trying to find?" Monica hesitated and her eyes flickered up to my glasses for an instant before going back to the bag she held in her lap.

"My husband."

I raised an eyebrow.

"I don't really handle missing persons, Monica. Shouldn't you have contacted the police about this?"

"No, you have to do it. I mean, I can't really contact the police … it's really complicated, Mister Dresden. My husband was in a very difficult situation when he left." I noticed she said left instead of disappeared. Interesting. "I don't want to get him in trouble with his work or advertise the fact that he went away. I just want him found and returned to me." Dammit. Did I tell you I'm quixotic in nature? A damsel in distress was asking for my help. I said, "Okay," even before I realised it. A pox on my good nature. I let out a slow breath.

"Okay, Monica. I'll find your husband. But if things get difficult I'll call the cops, understood?" I was quixotic, not stupid. Monica's eyes quivered in their sockets and I could tell she was debating whether or not to agree. She finally nodded. "Also," I continued, "I'm going to need something of his to track him down with." She nodded and reached into her purse. She pulled out … a scorpion. Not a live one. It was a skeleton. I blinked. There was something off about the skeleton. I couldn't place it, but something about it was definitely weird. She placed it on my desk. I made no move to take it.

"Was your husband a practitioner, Monica?" I asked lightly. She twitched slightly. It wasn't much but I saw it.

"A practitioner?" she queried. "A practitioner of what?"

"Magic," I replied. "The Art, the Talent, the Power. Call it whatever you will." She hesitated for a few seconds before replying.

"He started looking into that stuff a few weeks before he left," she finally said. "All that Wicca and magic stuff." I nodded and looked down at the scorpion. I gingerly picked it up and put it in a drawer of my desk. I looked up and saw her examining me. My face was calm. She looked down at her purse again. Wait for it.

"You're not what I imagined a wizard to be like," she finally said. There it was. I smiled.

"What did you imagine a wizard would be like?"

"I imagined more robes and staffs and wands and candles, I guess." I nodded. Everyone did.

"Robes are mainly used for meetings. Staffs and wands and other items like that are only used for actually casting spells. And candles are present in every wizard's house. I have a bunch in that cabinet over there in case I need to come here at night." She nodded and accepted that without comment. Very interesting. I just looked at her, my mind churning. Something was bothering me about all of this. I just needed to figure out what.

"Here is your retainer," she said and handed me an envelope. "There's also your wages for the rest of the week." I blinked. 3400 was quite a lot.

"I could find your husband before next week," I said. She just smiled nervously and stood up.

"Thank you for your help Mister Dresden." I stood up and walked her to the door. I opened it for her. She smiled, this time more naturally.

"Where can I contact you?" I asked. She reached into her purse of many pockets and took out a piece of paper. It had her name and address on it. I took it with a smile.

"Beautiful and smart," I said. Her smile became radiant. I don't know if I've mentioned this before but I'll say it again; I don't like seeing women in pain. I smiled back at her.

"Do you know anywhere he could have gone?"

"We have a lake house on Lake Michigan." She gave me the address and I memorised it. I closed the door behind her but not before I noticed what a great ass she had. So what? I notice these things. I'm an investigator, after all.

So I had to find a strong warlock who was on the warpath, I had to stay off Gentleman Johnnie Marcone's radar, I had to find out about the new drug called "Three Eye" and I had to find another practitioner who had put the disappearing act on his wife and kids.

It never rains but it pours.


	2. Volume 1 Chapter 2: Dresden's Life 101

My mother died during childbirth. It's not a healthy fact for a young impressionable child to grow up with, let me tell you. The first thing any newborn of any species of animal does is look for the mother because it knows instinctively that it will find three essential necessities there: food, shelter and care. Humans are animals, no matter how much we try to convince ourselves we are not. We invent new machinery to make our lives simpler and in the process we alienate ourselves from nature, our true home. I guess one of the perks of being a wizard and subsequently having the unconscious power of hexing technology is that you realise this fact, and therefore you are in a better position to appreciate your roots and the source of your power. But when we are children, before the world coalesces into the form we all know, we are still instinctual beings. Like any other animal, we crave the attention of our maternal bearers. That's why children are more able to sense the spiritual world, and in particular any evil that's near. They crave the feeling of safety, and since they can't see and everything they hear makes no sense to them, they have to rely on a sixth sense all mortals loose as they grow from infancy into being toddlers, then children and finally into puberty. It is here, during puberty that this sense returns for all those who have the Power. Normals never regain this sense, though it's always present in them in latent form. Have you ever suddenly woken up, sure there was something or someone in the room, or simply just turned around suddenly, an itch in your back, sure that there was something invisible nearby? Some normals, in particular martial artists or spiritual people i.e. gurus, are able to remove the mental barriers in their mind so that they are better able to sense _real world_ around them. Ever see those people who can make weird things happen and you just shrug it off as a very good illusion? Nine times out of ten that's true, but I have met men who can genuinely heal by simply affecting the flow of energy through the _chakras_, the _nada_, by acupuncture or some such methods.

As a wizard who can feel the flow of energy in the world, feeling the unconscious ease and skill a normal can wield the energy that feeds magic, that _is _magic, can be awe-inspiring, and for some of those more … traditionally minded wizards, it can be a little bit threatening. You probably don't know this but wizards can live a very long time. The prime example would be Merlin, and yes I do mean the sword-in-the-stone-King Arthur-Excalibur Merlin. No one knows precisely how long he lived, but earliest records indicate he lived for twenty-one hundred years. That's a long time. In that period he basically witnessed the rise and fall of dozens of civilizations, and more importantly his magical skills and strength grew beyond what pups like me can ever dream of. So if you are a wizard – and that normally requires about a few decades of apprenticeship before you can be certified as a member of the White Council – you will probably notice just how far mortals have come in the past half century alone. They have mastered the power of flight, they have mastered the power of the atom (a power which no single wizard, or for that matter numerous wizards, can match or defend against) and they are evermore advancing. So if a normal can effect changes on the body with skill and precision and without causing harm, something that's very difficult for the magically inclined, it can make a wizard wonder if he's on the right side if a war were to ever break out between wizards and the mortal community. We humans have shown to be very instinctual. If we are threatened we have only two responses; shred threat to a million pieces or run like hell. A century ago we wizards would have definitely had the upper hand and so we would have triumphed. Now with several countries containing enough explosives to vaporize the planet, it's a little bit harder to tell. It's one of the reasons why I chose to live with mortals instead of being the traditional tower-dwelling, brooding wizard. They inspire me. Many of the spells, potions, and magical tools I have made are from things I have seen living among them. They can also be incredibly intelligent when they aren't thinking up ridiculous excuses to explain perfectly supernatural occurrences.

Anyway, back to my original statement: My mother died during childbirth. Without my mother, I was naturally doomed to the emotional confusion and outcaste behavioural pattern you hear about so often these days. I mean my dad was a brilliant father, and he loved me, but there's nothing like a little motherly love. When my dad died, when I was seven, I was completely lost. The tether to any normalcy had been cut and I was adrift. If I was a normal boy I would probably have turned out better. But I was a preadolescent boy whose magical powers were growing. I was screwed, to put it plainly. I spent three years in and out of foster homes, always being moved because I became "too much to handle". I lived with foster parents, and I had two really great ones, but I could never relate to their normal world of accountants and what-not so I never fitted in. And technology kept on malfunctioning whenever I was around. No matter how much of an ignorant person you are, you _will_ notice when you have to buy a fifth television set in three months.

And then _he_ came. Justin DuMorne. A former Warden of the White Council. In fact, he was second-in-command to the Captain of the Wardens of the White Council. But after a few decades he quit that gig for a private life of brooding and plotting. You know. Normal wizard life. I won't lie to you, wizards aren't generally nice people. Living for centuries and generally losing at least one mortal loved one, and added to the inherent run-ins with deadly immortals aiming to kill you, tends to make you kind of secluded and mean. Hell's bells, you might be of the opinion that I'm not very nice (which is true some times) but compared to most wizards I'm down right sweet! (Well, apart from when I get really pissed off, but that rarely happens so my statement still stands)

Justin offered me what no one else could; an understanding and sympathetic ear. He promised to help me learn about my heritage and how to control my powers. He was also was very charming. I was impressionable. Who isn't at that age? I was hooked. It took virtually no time at all to adopt me, and it was only years later that I would find that suspicious. It would be even longer still that I took it upon myself to investigate that little train of thought. Justin had planned it all months before. All he had to do was pitch the spiel and I would be in the bag. Whatever else I or anyone else might say about him, he was a brilliant wizard, intelligent, and an excellent strategist. He had to be in order to make it as high up the chain of command as he did. On my tenth birthday I moved into my new house in Chicago, in the kind of neighbourhood I had only dreamed about when I was living in a trailer home with my dad. The new life was like a dream come true. Justin had a magical spirit which was a repository for magical knowledge (and any other knowledge) that introduced me to the world of magic. I have seen how many apprentices are tutored and I can definitely say they need to get their own magical spirits for advice and help (and beware that those spirits are benign and also haven't got a faerie queen angry at them – I learnt that lesson a little too late). You can't be tutored in magic any better than by a creature composed entirely of sentient incorporeal magic. I can attest to that, seeing as the years wore on Justin took a more personal role in my training. He was less … subtle.

A year after I started living with Justin, a year that managed to lock up the pain of my past, Justin brought in another child, though this one wasn't adopted. Her name was Elaine Mallory. From the get-go we were opposing forces. Whereas my skill lay in the more physical aspects of magic, hers lay in the more subtle regions. This is not to say she was more skilled. Different wizards and witches have different areas they are naturally talented in. I could call up fire with ease but Elaine struggled; she could make herself go invisible and I could barely veil my whole body.

(Of course I am not that incompetent, but I'm not very good either. Maybe some part of me recognised Justin for what he was and the fact that I would never belong anywhere, because early on I developed a habit of hiding the extent of my true capabilities. I still do it today, and it's proved just as useful as it did on my sixteenth birthday. Enemies have the impression that when it comes to skill with magic I am no more than a thug; powerful but untrained. Having every enemy I meet underestimate me has helped give me an element of surprise that has proved invaluable for me and fatal for my foes.)

I developed a relationship with Elaine as we hit puberty together. It was inevitable in a way. We only had each other to rely on. Even though at school we had different friends – she had more than I did –, swam in different cliques and drove each other up the wall, we were still close. By fourteen we were spending more and more time with each other, though we kept it secret. It would have been weird for people to see us together like that, even though they all knew Elaine and I were not related apart from the fact that we had been adopted by the same man.

And then at sixteen it happened. Justin had been increasingly showing his true colours, and by this time we were truly afraid of him. He started trying to coerce us into joining him and making a stand against the White Council. Justin was of the opinion that wizards had grown soft over the centuries and should take their rightful place in society. The ideas had a certain appeal, but we were afraid. I thought we would never capitulate, but Elaine thought different. She joined him. I cannot begin to describe the betrayal I felt. She was like a sister to me, a friend and a girlfriend. She was a pillar I had thought I could rely on. And what's more, she helped Justin to try and force me into his service. I managed to escape but Justin sent a demon after me named He Who Walks Behind. I barely managed to defeat it but my anger then helped me do it. It also made me go back to Justin's manor and confront him. I was bound for a second time by Elaine and once again given a choice; join up or die. I chose to die (not literally, of course) and then proceeded to fight Elaine and Justin. I am a powerful wizard in terms of raw strength but back then I was still a sapling. Justin had centuries of skill and strength to draw upon. I managed to knock Elaine unconscious and used every bit of knowledge and strength I had to defeating Justin. The fact that I was more skilled than he thought helped me. I used that momentary stillness caused by his surprise and struck with all I had. I killed him.

But Justin wasn't to be outdone. He had made preparations in the unlikely case he would be defeated while still inside his manor (though I don't think he was thinking about me). The entire house was conveniently built on a leyline, sort of like a magical river that flows underground, all over the planet, and he used it to power a ritual spell that sent me back in time, thereby breaking the sixth Law of Magic; _Thou shalt not swim against the Currents of Time_. He had already broken several by trying to enthral me (and I later reasoned out that Elaine had to be enthralled too; too much didn't add up), by invading my mind, by summoning a demon (though this could be argued on a technicality) and I knew he had killed with magic .But Justin was seconds from death and the ritual spell went awry. Instead of presumably sending me back maybe a few days or weeks when his past self had first thought of the plan and would be expecting visitors from the future, he sent me back _freaking centuries!_ Back to the year of his birth! But that wasn't all. The circle Justin had built to transport me was made up of three parts; one part for the mind, one for the body, one for the spirit. My fight with Justin had damaged his circle. The circles that were in charge of making sure I travelled back in time whole had been destroyed. My body and spirit stayed in the present, in that gloomy room that was slowly burning to a cinder. My mind wasn't so lucky. It was transported back in time five hundred years – and looking for anything familiar to latch onto, it had gone and taken refuge in the one place it had found; newborn Justin DuMorne's mind.

Now as far as wizards go I'm skilled, but that's it. Unlike other wizards, I haven't as of yet found my specialty. All wizards and witches have them. They have something unique they can do better than everyone else. Maybe it's because I haven't even reached half a century of age and I've still got centuries to live. I've got my fingers in many pies but I haven't chosen which one to take yet. But whatever the reason, I am not equipped to deal with or understand the situation that occurred on my sixteenth birthday. There is no precedent (legally speaking, of course, seeing as DuMorne did break one of the Laws of Magic) from which I can draw wisdom. I do, however, have Bob, my magical organiser-slash-assistant-slash-computer-slash-well-of-knowledge.

(Bob is a spiritual entity from the Nevernever. He is made up of magic. He has no corporeal form. He is, however, extremely intelligent. DuMorne did not engage in any major magical activity without first consulting and/or informing Bob. And so if anyone could shed light on what happened, it would be him. And by the way, Bob's really not his name. He had none until I gave him one. Bob exhibited too many emotions and had too much intelligence for me to treat him like DuMorne had treated him; a possession. Giving him a name seemed like a good idea.)

But even Bob couldn't completely work it out. It seemed that my mind was transported back in time and took refuge in DuMorne's mind. That alone was unusual because magically speaking it's virtually impossible for two consciousnesses to reside in one mind. Because of something to do with time and magic and god-knows what else, my consciousness remained dormant inside DuMorne's mind, asleep. Apparently, although even to this day I find it hard to believe, my consciousness aged five hundred years, slowly making its way back to my time, back to where my girlfriend was dead or dying in the burning blaze I had created, back to where my mentor's last breaths quickened with sick excitement as he waited for time to stand still and recreate events according to the changes his past self would make, and back to where I lay prone and perfectly alive, yet completely unaware of my surroundings. It is here my memories begin again. Sometimes I find it hard to believe that in Justin's manor I only lay unconscious for a few seconds and yet it took my mind over five hundred years to wake up again. Bob thinks that it was Justin's impending death that woke my unconsciousness. With only one Harry Dresden consciousness in the room, there was no risk of a paradox and so it flared alive in DuMorne's mind. For a second I can remember events from DuMorne's point of view. He instantly realised what had happened, how his circle had gone wrong. He realised that he was dying and had no strength to act. He knew I would come round completely healthy and fine. All his efforts had come to naught.

I came to and realised none of this at that moment in time. I just remembered my own life, my own sixteen years of living. And I remember how I hated DuMorne for tricking me and trying to enthral me.

"_Harry … please … help … me!_"

Those were Justin's exact words, his last words. And I paid no heed to them. I looked straight into his eyes as I called upon my power and … and did nothing. I couldn't do it. Even after everything he had done, I could not kill the one person who definitely deserved it. I simply sat on the cold stone floor and watched Justin DuMorne, a truly powerful wizard, bleed and burn to death. I watched impassively. He had already been too far gone for me to do anything, but those few seconds seemed to last forever. I realised at some point Justin's eyes had glazed over. That was when I acted and used my power to douse the flames. Elaine was nowhere to be seen, but then again the section she had been sitting at – where I had knocked her unconscious – was completely destroyed. Fire created by magic tends to reflect the emotions of its creator, and I had been angry and desperate. My fire, my chosen weapon of choice in most situations, had reflected that. Nothing in that part of the manor survived, even the centuries old stone of the manor itself. I had to have it repaired years later when I started working. And even though she had been trying to kill me, I mourned Elaine's death. You never forget the first love.

After DuMorne's death I had started gaining knowledge in my head I couldn't remember acquiring, and yet I could remember nothing of DuMorne's life. Bob explained it all. Knowledge, pure fact, is multi-temporal. It cannot be changed or affected by the passage of time, and therefore whatever pure knowledge DuMorne knew, my mind could accept and absorb because it was no different to anything I could learn in my own time. The mind's defence mechanism would allow this knowledge through its wards. However, anything relating to DuMorne's life, personal details, was barred from my consciousness. Whether or not my unconsciousness was aware of the information was another matter. Bob said it would take years, maybe even decades before I completely absorbed all that DuMorne knew. It took thirteen years. But this didn't seem to unsettle Bob. As I said, he is a spiritual entity from the Nevernever, not human, very alien and therefore not bothered by morals. If anything scared Bob, it would have to be very powerful. According to him, any human subjected to what I had been should have died. Humans simply aren't accustomed to dealing with time magic. Even faeries don't meddle with it, though that has more to do with the fact that it would serve no purpose seeing as almost every faerie is immortal in one context or another. Also it would be pretty useless seeing as the laws of physics, like space and time, are more malleable, and even non-existent, in some parts of the Nevernever. So if I didn't die and my mind was being protected with something I wasn't capable of doing, it only stood to reason that someone else was doing it. It couldn't any human; the energy required would be insane. They would essentially be dealing with over five hundred of life. It was way beyond any human league. That left the _in_human league. And before I even started theorizing, I stopped. No inhuman being is interested in the mortal realm, not in a good way at least. The closest would be the Winter and Summer faeries as their realms in the Nevernever are closest to the human world. But what kind of creature would be interested in saving me? Whatever it was, it did not mean me any goodwill.

After Justin died and I doused the flames, I set about protecting Justin's inner sanctum. All wizards have it, in one form or another. It's the place where all your secrets reside, where all your books and records and equipment are kept. As you can imagine, this place is the heart of your Art and therefore must be protected at all costs. Not only from outsiders, but from what could come out from inside the sanctum itself. Anything you do in the sanctum has to be contained so that if the shit hits the fan you are the only one that gets sprayed. My inner sanctum is in my basement. And I prefer to call it a lab. Anyway, I set about doing this because I wanted to preserve as much of DuMorne's store of knowledge as I could. Not only could it help me mature as a fledgling wizard but it could also explain Justin's motives for taking me and Elaine on, and what his plans were. It didn't take me long to find all entrances and collapse the spells there. With all the magical activity in the house no one would notice these patches of magical activity, and if they did they wouldn't think much of it. When I had finished doing everything I immediately fell unconscious. The stress my mind and my spirit had endured in the space of an hour was astronomical. It took me two weeks of constant sleep before I recuperated, and when I did I wake up, it was in a prison cell, or rather room, and under heavy duty guard from two Wardens. My first thought was: _…shit_. I knew the Laws of Magic. I knew that skilled wizards or witches would probably have worked out what had happened. DuMorne had died in a magical duel with me, and thus I had broken the first Law of Magic. I had killed someone with magic. The penalty is death. The White Council is big on the "tit-for-tat" policy.

Everyone on trial by the White Council for breaking one of the Seven Laws always wears a black cloth over their head. Personally I think it's because they don't want to see that the person whose life is in their hands, no matter how horrible this person may be, is still human and capable of emotions like guilt and fear. I have seen it before. A mass murderer can go around axing everyone in sight, but one day they will hesitate, maybe because the little girl who was about to snuff it reminded them of their long lost little sister or something. Is that one moment of mercy enough redemption for so much sin? Like the White Council passing judgement, people whose profession are along the lines of snipers and assassins never look in the eyes of the person they are about to kill. It reminds them that they are taking human life. Even the most sinister of convicts are subject to second thoughts in such situations, which could cause complications for the mission. And so I did not see my judge and jury, and I was still not fully recuperated so the trial kind of went kind of fast for me. I barely understood what was going on, no doubt one of the White Council's interrogation and disorientation tactics. I managed to get in my own testimony of what had happened (at this time I was still unaware of the Time Ritual Spell Justin had cast so I didn't add it, and neither did I mention Elaine's presence), and I think my youth and my still raw emotions managed to swing enough of the White Council in my favour that I was put of probation. I had the sword of Damocles hanging over my head.

The sword of Damocles is a moral anecdote recorded by a Greek historian named Timaeus concerning the history of Sicily, but it was another Greek called Cicero who used it in one of his books, bringing it into European culture. In the story, Damocles visited the court of a fourth century BC tyrant called Dionysus, the second. Damocles commented on how fortunate Dionysus II was to have so much power and authority. As a reply Dionysus offered to switch places with Damocles for a day. Damocles took Dionysus' throne and enjoyed a day of opulence, being waited on hand and foot and his every whim being satisfied. It was only later on that Damocles looked up by chance and saw a sharp sword hanging by a single horsehair over his head. Damocles immediately lost all his taste for the finery surrounding him and asked leave of Dionysus. The Sword of Damocles is frequently used in allusion to this tale, epitomizing the imminent and ever-present peril faced by those in positions of power (e.g. wizards). More generally, it is used to denote the sense of foreboding engendered by the precarious situation, especially one in which the onset of tragedy is restrained only by a delicate trigger or chance. This was the situation I was in, and why I was reluctant to help Murphy. If enough pressure was applied to that delicate trigger, I was done for. The White Council wouldn't listen to any excuses I made. Cicero once asked: "Does not Dionysius seem to have made it sufficiently clear that there can be nothing happy for the person over whom some fear always looms?" Hallelujah, Cicero. But I try not to think about it much.

After the trial, plenty of decisions had to be made. I might have been acquitted by wizard law but I was still subject to human law. I was a minor, being sixteen, and the White Council decided it would be unsafe (and maybe a little detrimental to the trial) to leave a fledgling wizard who had proven he could be very dangerous. It was decided that I would go to Missouri, to live under the eye and tutelage of a wizard there. Living on a ranch was new thing for a city boy like me, but I enjoyed it. It gave me a chance to appreciate another side of being a wizard. Ever since I began living with Justin I'd been acquiring knowledge, learning about the magical community's ins and outs. It was only then I realised Justin had been training me, raising me as a soldier. But living simply allowed me to see the source of magic, to appreciate life. I think I learned more in those two years with my guardian wizard than I did in the six years with Justin.

But I still craved a purpose in life. I'd been lost for so long the feeling had become a part of my life. I was used to it. And I hated that. Everything in the world, no matter how good or bad, has family to depend upon. My father was dead, and so was my mother (and from what little I had gathered from during my trial and from my guardian, she hadn't been a good witch). I was heavily disillusioned and needed something to ground me, to give me back my sense of reality. So on my eighteenth birthday, after I graduated from high school, I left the ranch. I went back to Justin's manor, making sure I wasn't followed or found out. I spent a couple of months living there, going through Justin's stuff. What I found out sickened me as much as it interested me. Justin had been involved in some major shit. There were very few names used, but from what I gathered killing Justin had been a good thing. In a few more decades, after Elaine and I had been trained sufficiently, Justin had planned on approaching … someone, I couldn't quite understand who exactly, but after that there would be enough soldiers in the ranks, enough powerful wizards and witches to go up against the White Council. I wanted answers, and so I used Justin's list as a starting point. Justin had made a list of possible enemies and allies when his revolution started, and I thought it smarter to start with the "enemies" list. They would likely be my friends and be less inclined to kill me. I didn't fool myself one bit. I was barely an adult by mortal standards and practically a child by wizard standards. I was nowhere near strong enough to be making enemies in Justin's league. Just defeating Justin had cost me a lot, too much I sometimes thought.

And so I decided to follow the path my father had wanted. When I turned eighteen I inherited the little money my father had left for me so I could go to university. I decided to go to university in the old country, in Europe, specifically Great Britain. An average Joe like me attended Oxford, which is always a source of amusement for friends and enemies alike. But the reason I decided to go to Oxford had less to do with the advertised quality of its education. It had to do with the fact that by killing Justin I had made enemies with his allies. Oxford, like most old country institutes of knowledge, caters for both normals and the supernatural community. I now had no one in the world that would be willing to tutor me. I was a talented wizard, but I had a long way to go before I was even considered a minor threat. If you know where and how to look, places like Oxford, Cambridge, Edinburgh and Dublin can be very useful. So I went to Oxford (periodically making trips to Dublin and Edinburgh for extra "research"), where I spent five years getting degrees in various normal subjects, but more importantly increasing my understanding of magical theory and practise. By the time I was twenty-three I'd graduated (and had absorbed as much as I could from the tomes on magic I had found in those ancient buildings) and I had finally made a decision. In one of Justin's journals I had found mention of an organisation called _Tasogareru_. It was the best bet at understanding what I'd inadvertently been launched into the moment I became DuMorne's apprentice. Tasogareru is Japanese; it means twilight. The Twilight organisation was started by a guru at the end of the fifteenth century. It primarily consisted of mortals with a touch of the supernatural, normals whose eyes were not blinkered to the true nature of the universe. There were a few practitioners interspersed among the ranks, and only a handful with enough power to be considered wizards. Tasogareru fought against every type of supernatural villain that meant humanity harm, which was a very great undertaking considering the sheer amount of baddies out there. But as small Tasogareru was, it was greatly organised and increasingly effective. I joined their ranks.

For fifteen years I was one of their agents, operating under the legend of "Wraith". It was a personal joke (you have to find humour where you can in this business). I was not a master of subtle magicks like veils, but I had a knack for getting the job done without anyone being the wiser. Seeing as only a few could be effective in a fight against supernatural criminals, my missions ranged from espionage, sabotage, assassination and soldiery to being a healer (not a doctor, very different things) and general agent for the organisation. After centuries of being thwarted by the organisation, a few of Tasogareru's enemies got very pissed off and managed to launch a full-out assault on all known bases. Many died, on both sides. I was one of the few who lived. There were many safety measures that had been put in place for such an eventuality, and those that lived managed to survive and hide using them. An organisation like Tasogareru simply can't be eradicated. Most members are in hiding, and those few agents like me still alive have found other occupations that allow us to continue helping mankind whilst still keeping our cover. We keep in contact, exchanging information and also for simple human comfort. You'd be surprised how few people in the world know what's out there. Unlike wizards, mortals are not used to this kind of terrifying world. Centuries of ignorance have seen to that. And I have never really had any wizard friends. Having kindred souls in the world who I can have no contact with for a decade and know that they would coming running to my aid if the shit ever really hit the fan is a comfort. Of course, I never use this relationship. Most of them simply aren't equipped to deal with the situations I get involved in, and those that are have too much to live for, for me to come a-knocking and disrupt their lives. I knew what I was getting into when I joined up.

And so after fifteen years in that line of work I suddenly found myself and near broke. Tasogareru had always taken care of every member's needs. It had survived so long against a horde of superior enemies simply because of the level of trust that existed among members. My pride rebelled against depending on someone else, of course, and that was when I met Nick of Ragged Angel Investigations. For a year I worked under him, learning the ins and outs of the private detective business. My experience as an agent was extremely useful, but there are just some things that only a normal human being can learn and appreciate about society. Nick taught me many valuable things. Just like the wizard who'd been my guardian when I was sixteen, Nick felt more like a fatherly figure than a friend and colleague. After that I set up my own business.

The moment my name appeared in the yellow pages, under "Wizard", the White Council sent a Warden to warn me against my blatant exposure to the mortal world. I told him to take a long walk off a short cliff. I was not breaking any rules and besides, I could help people. Despite the fact that there are Wardens all over the world, they can never deal with every situation that arises. It's been proven that no one trusts the authorities, whether mortal or otherwise. People don't like to publicise their problems. That was one of the reasons Tasogareru was formed. Finding those pesky problems people liked to keep silent and eradicating them. Morgan didn't like it, but he could do nothing about it. I was left alone.

And that's what I've been doing since. Despite being based in the city of Chicago, my business has led me to places all over the globe. Morgan, the Warden in charge of the Chicago area, who also happens to be the Warden who arrested me and protested heavily against my being acquitted, constantly drops in to make sure I'm not breaking (or rather comes in hope that I am breaking) any of the Laws of Magic.

Over the years I've become acquainted with the magical community, but still some of the entries in Justin's journals don't make sense, or rather need insider knowledge to be comprehensible. But I do know enough to understand that Justin's death only forestalled the planned rebellions. And I know the White Council. Something of this magnitude wouldn't escape their notice. They are fighting the good fight too. They stand for what's right, and I never let my personal feelings colour my judgement about them. Still, I haven't told them anything of what I discovered. My instincts both as an agent and as a wizard have told me it isn't the right time. There is still so much I need to find out before I can approach the Council. A conspiracy of this magnitude would need a lot of work dedicated to it, and so every base would be covered. Someone of my reputation would need a lot of facts to back them up or else that hanging sword could just "accidentally" fall.

And now I had this mess to deal with. A powerful warlock was killing innocents. (As a wizard, I can only view mortals as innocents. They aren't capable of fighting the supernatural. That was why the Laws of Magic were made. They are there primarily to protect mortals from magic. Technically, if I killed or transformed or enthralled or used necromancy to revive something that wasn't human in nature, it wouldn't be breaking those specific Laws. But of course that would be a risk I would only undertake when things were really tight, when I had no other option. The White Council might decide I was abusing my rights or something like that, and off goes my head!) I had agreed to help Murphy figure out how this was happening, which wouldn't be breaking the killing Law, but preparing a recipe was only one step away from the finished product. It was close enough that I might just get executed.

But Murphy was right. I had to do everything in my power to stop this warlock. For someone to openly defy the White Council like this and kill using magic… No, I couldn't allow this to go un-investigated, unpunished. And I had a powerful gangster leaning on me too boot. And as an agent, I understood how things worked in organisations like the White Council. As soon as this came to their attention, which it would, they would blame the only wizard living in Chicago. Yours truly. So now I had to work with a very slim deadline as well. And I couldn't forget my client's case, or else I might lose credibility. The only reason I remained in business was because I got results, even though no one wanted to know how. Gangster, plus warlock, plus case, plus imminent death, was a very powerful cocktail. It never rains. (Now you know why I understand where Cicero was coming from).

Hah. Sometimes I just shouldn't get up in the morning.


	3. Volume 1 Chapter 3: Sniffing Around

I decided to deal with Monica's case first: find missing hubby. There were a few simple explanations as to where senór Sells had gone. The first and simplest explanation was that he had packed up and left with a girlfriend. Monica might be in denial about the situation. After all, what kind of man would up and leave his wife and kids just like that? In this day and age, Monica dear, there are plenty. But Monica had seemed sure that wasn't the case, so for the moment I kept that answer in reserve. Another explanation was that dearest Victor had been a poor victim in some tragic accident and was at that moment in time lying on a metallic slab, in a morgue. That is probably the first course of action most investigators take. Why go running around when the answer is just a few phone calls away? And lastly there was the off chance that Victor had actually started developing a talent for the Art and had gone off to get in touch with this other, new side.

The calls to all the morgues in the county turned up nothing. That left the lake house as a starting point. Hopefully that would turn up something; otherwise I would have to start resorting to more taxing methods of tracking. My mind went back to the scorpion talisman Monica had given me. I resisted a shudder. Scorpions are powerful talismans when used in magic, and they aren't the good kind either. When worn next to the skin, like all talismans are supposed to be worn, their pincers, stinger and legs would be a constant agitation to the skin, piercing the skin or scratching it. In fact, anyone who tried to hug the wearer would be hurt; the stringer or pincers could catch in a man's chest hair or scratch the curve of a woman's breasts. Scorpions aren't inherently evil: no animal is. But you weren't likely to achieve world peace with a talisman like that, either. Maybe the scorpion was just a souvenir picked up on one trip or another. Or maybe it was the real thing. I had no way of knowing, short of actually using it. I had reached out with my sense and hadn't been able to detect anything. Well, I'd just have to cross those bridges when I came to them.

After the calls to the morgues turned up nothing, I went to McAnally's. I usually go there after a few rough weeks or when I have enough extra dough to spend. McAnally's is a tavern, and the owner, Mac, is well used to wizards and their accompanying problems. There are no televisions or expensive computerised trivia games or even a jukebox. There is, however, a player piano. It's less likely to go boom. When I said it's a tavern, by the way, I actually meant _tavern_. When you get there, you walk down several stairs before entering the room, which had a dangerous combination of low clearance and ceiling fans. If you're tall like me you have to be very careful in McAnally's. There are thirteen stools at the bar, thirteen tables in the room, thirteen mirrors set around the pub that give the illusion of a larger room, thirteen windows set high in the wall to let in some light, and thirteen wooden columns carved with the likenesses from folktales and legends of the Old World. On top of making it too difficult to walk in a straight line, the pillars also dispersed any energy that surrounded grumpy and brooding wizards, and stopped that energy from manifesting in any colourful and potentially dangerous ways.

"Dresden," Mac greeted me. Mac is tall, almost gangly, and of indeterminate age. There is a sense of wisdom and strength about him that suggests someone above the age of fifty, but his smile, when is surfaces, which is rarely, is mischievous and almost boyish. He isn't much of a speaker, but when he does speak I would advise you to keep both ears widely open.

"Mac," I greeted back. "Hell of a day. Can I have some ale with chicken and fries, please?"

"Ungh." He opened a bottle and began to pour it warm. Mac's ale is not refrigerated. Mac will kill you if he ever found out some of his ale was refrigerated. No joke. I took off my fedora. Soon it would be summer and it would be too hot to wear it. I liked my hat. The blood red colour and nearly feminine wide brim were a good combination. It had style. Or at least I thought it did. When Mac put my ale in front of me I took a large swig. That was some good – correction, _great!_ – Ale. I picked up a newspaper and started going through it.

"You hear what happened at the Madison?" I asked.

"Ungh," Mac confirmed. Mac heard things. In a pub that catered for both the magically inclined and disinclined, he was bound to hear something. Sometimes when he thought it was important enough he would give me a heads up. He had never let me down.

"Nasty business," I said. Mac didn't reply. Obviously such a comment didn't deserve reply. And obviously he didn't have any information to offer. I picked up a newspaper and started reading.

"Listen to this," I said, shaking my head. "There was another ThreeEye rampage downtown. Three junkies destroyed a grocery store because they were apparently convinced the place was going to burn down and were determined to beat destiny to the punch. Luckily there were no casualties, apart from the junkies themselves. Jesus, this stuff is worse than coke."

"Ungh."

"Have you ever seen anything like this?" I asked. Never hurt to ask. Mac shook his head.

"They say this stuff gives you the third sight," I said, continuing reading and taking a sip of my ale. "But you know what I think?" Mac turned to me from the stove. "I don't think that's possible. It's just impossible. There's no way a human could do that. It's a bunch of crap. Someone's probably mixing together chemicals and trying to sell kids the idea that they can do magic." Mac nodded in agreement. "Besides, if this was the real deal, the department would have contacted me by now."

Mac shrugged and turned back to his stove. He peered up and squinted into the mirror behind the bar. "Harry," he said, "you were followed."

If it wasn't for the fact that someone might have been about to do it themselves, I would have killed myself. What had happened to my usually razor sharp instincts? I should have sensed someone following me a mile off. My hands tightened around the warm mug of ale and I ran statistics through my mind, lightening fast. There were so many courses of action, but only a few that would not end in disaster. A few of phrases in quasi-Latin leapt into my head, ready to be used. It never hurt to have a little something ready for defence, especially if this person turned out to be stronger than I thought. I watched the dim reflection in the ancient mirror getting closer calmly, to all appearance oblivious. Mac went on cooking, completely unperturbed. Nothing much perturbed Mac.

I smelled her perfume and smiled. "Miss Rodriguez," I said, my voice warm and friendly. "It's always a pleasure to see you." I turned round and smiled at her. "Please, join me." She came to an abrupt halt, failing to conceal her disconcertment. One of the perks of being a wizard is that normals always attribute anything you do to magic, if no other explanations leap immediately into mind. She probably wouldn't think her perfume would have given away her identity when my blind identification of her could be attributed to my mystical powers. But to be fair my nose is a tad sharper than any normal so she might have a point there. But I digress.

"Come on, now," I said, getting up and pulling back the barstool next to mine. "Please, sit. I can buy you a drink while I refuse to tell you anything."

"Harry," she admonished me, "you don't know I'm here on business." She sat down and I tucked her in before sitting down. I looked her from the corner of my eye while I closed the newspaper. She was a woman of average height and striking, dark beauty, wearing a crisp business jacket and skirt, hose, and pumps. Her dark, straight hair was trimmed in a neat cut of the dark skin of her forehead, emphasising the lazy appeal of her dark eyes.

"Susan," I chided her, "you wouldn't be in this place if you weren't. Did you have a good time in Branson?"

Susan Rodriguez was a reporter for the Chicago _Arcane_, a yellow magazine that covered all sorts of supernatural and paranormal events throughout the Midwest. Usually, the events they covered weren't much better than: "Monkey Man Seen With Elvis's Love Child," or "JFK's Mutant Ghost Abducts Shape-shifting Girl Scout." But once in a great, great while, the _Arcane_ covered something that was real. Like the Unseelie Incursion of 1994, when the entire city of Milwaukee had simply vanished for two hours. Gone. Government satellite photos showed the river valley covered with trees and empty of life or human habitation. All communications ceased. Then, a few hours later, there it was again, and no one in the city itself was any the wiser.

She had also been hanging around my investigation in Branson, much to my annoyance and amusement. She had made a habit of tracking me down ever since interviewing me for a feature story, right after I'd opened up my business. I guess I should have seen that one coming. I had to hand it to her, though; she had good instincts, and also enough curiosity to get her into a hundred different kinds of trouble. She had tricked me into meeting her eyes after the conclusion of our first interview, an eager young reporter investigating an angle on her interviewee. She fainted after we'd soulgazed. Poor girl.

She put her purse on the bar. "You should have stayed around for the show. It was pretty impressive."

"I'm not sure it was my kind of scene," I said smiling as I took off my glasses. Since we'd already shared a soulgaze they weren't that necessary. And also I didn't want to get lines on my nose and temples. Necessity and comfort never dance together. Sigh.

"My editor loved the coverage. She's convinced the story is going to win an award of some kind."

"Oh, I can see it now," I said, waving my hand in front of my face. ""Mysterious Visions Haunt Drug-Using Country Star." That is real hard-hitting paranormal journalism, that." I looked at her, smiling still, and she looked back into my eyes without any fear. If my jibe had ruffled her, she didn't show it.

"I heard you got called in by the S.I. director today," she told me, leaning forward enough that a glance down would have afforded me a very interesting view down the V of her white shirt. "I'd love to hear you tell me about this one, Harry." Her lips quirked in a small smile, a small smile that promised very entertaining (and possibly illegal) things.

I smiled back at her. "Sorry," I said, "but I have a standard nondisclosure agreement with the city."

"Maybe you can tell me something off the record, then?" she asked. "You know, rumour has it these killings were pretty sensational."

_Rumour has a very weird mind_, I thought. Out loud: "I'm sorry Susan, but I can't help you. Wild horses couldn't drag it out of me, et cetera."

"Just a hint," Susan pressed. "Just a word of comment. Something shared between two people who are very, very attracted to one another."

"And which two people are those?" I asked, completely innocent.

She put an elbow on the counter and propped her chin in one hand, studying me through narrowed eyes and thick, long lashes. My smile grew bigger. One of the things that appealed to me about her was that even though she used her charm and femininity relentlessly in pursuit of her stories, she had no concept of just how attractive she really was – I had seen that when I looked within her last year.

"Harry Dresden," she said, "you are a thoroughly maddening man." Her eyes narrowed a bit further. "You didn't even look down my blouse once, did you?" she accused.

I laughed and beckoned Mac to pour her a mug of ale. "Guilty as charged," I said with a raised palm.

"Most men would be off-balance by now," she complained. "What does it take with you, Dresden?"

"I am pure of heart and mind," I told her. "I cannot be corrupted." She stared at me in frustration before he tilted her back and laughed. She had a good laugh, rich and throaty. I _did_ look down her top, then, just for a second. A pure heart and mind can only get you so far. Maybe it's an overwhelming interest in my career, but I've never had much time for the fairer sex. And the few times I have, it hasn't turned out very well. Susan Rodriguez was a known quantity. She was attractive, bright, appealing, her motivations were clear and simple, and she was honest in pursuing them. That appealed to me. In my life I'd constantly been surrounded by much more subtle people. It was I game I had learnt to play fast and well, if I wished to survive. Susan flirted with me because she wanted information as much as because she thought I was attractive. That was refreshingly new.

"I'll tell you what, Harry," Susan said, "how about I ask you questions and you just answer them with a simple yes or a no?"

"No," I said promptly, taking a sip of my ale.

Her eyes glittered as she gazed at me. "Was Tommy Tomm murdered by a paranormal being or means?"

How did she know the identity of the murder victims? "No," I said.

"No he wasn't?" Susan asked. "Or no it wasn't a paranormal act?"

I glanced at Mac for any suggestions out of the situation. Mac completely ignored, for Mac does not take sides. Mac is wise.

"No, I'm not going to answer your questions," I clarified finally.

"Do the police have any leads, or any suspects?"

"No."

"Are you a suspect yourself, Harry?"

Now that made me pause. First I let my guard down and now this easy and logical conclusion had slipped my notice? What was wrong with me? "No," I answered. "You know, Susan-"

"Would you mind having dinner with me Saturday night?"

"No, Susan! I-" I blinked. I looked down on the counter. Back up at her. "Um, what?"

She smiled, leaned down and kissed me very unchastely on the cheek. Screw incorruptible, her lips felt very, very nice. "Super," she said. "I'll pick you up at your place. Say around nine?"

"Did I just miss something?" I asked her slowly.

"I think you did," she said, her dark eyes twinkling with humour. "I'm going to take you out for a fantastic dinner. Have you ever eaten at the Pump Room? At the Ambassador East?" I shook my head. "Steaks like you wouldn't believe," she assured me. "And the most romantic atmosphere. Jackets and ties required. And then afterward I'm going to take you out clubbing. I know this great place downtown. You'll need to bring a change of clothes. The place has got a strict casual dress code. Can you manage?"

"Um. Yes?" I answered, carefully. "This is the answer to the question of whether or not I'll go out with you, right?"

"No," Susan replied with a smile. "That was the answer I tricked out of you, so you're stuck, there. I just want to make sure you own something besides black boots, black trousers and button-down Western shirts. You should be looser, Dresden, more casual. You don't look thirty and you already dress like an old man."

"Oh. Of course," I said, smiling at her comments.

"Super," she repeated, and kissed me on the cheek once more as she stood up and gathered her purse. "Saturday, then." She drew back and quirked her smirky little smile at me. It was a killer look, sultry and appealing. "I'll be there. With bells on." She turned and walked out. I sort of turned to stare after her, unashamedly, I might add. My jaw slid off the bar as I did and landed on the floor. Had I just agreed to a date? Or an interrogation session?

"Probably both," I muttered. "Knowing my luck." Mac slapped my fries and chicken down in front of me. I put down some money, morosely, and he made change.

"She's going to do nothing but try and trick information out of me that I shouldn't be giving her, Mac," I said.

"Ungh," Mac agreed.

"Why did I say yes?"

Mac shrugged.

"She's pretty," I said. "Smart. Sexy."

"Ungh."

"Any red-blooded man would have done the same thing."

"Hngh," Mac snorted.

"Well. Maybe not you." Mac smiled a bit, mollified.

"Still. It's going to make trouble for me. I must be crazy to go for someone like that." I picked up my chicken, and sighed.

"Dumb," Mac said.

"I just said she was smart, Mac."

Mac's face flickered into that smile, and it made him look years younger, almost boyish. "Not her," he said. "You." I ate my dinner, in silence. And I had to admit that he was right. This date definitely threw a wrench in my plans. My plan to poke around the Sells and collect any information I could was best carried out at night. And I had tomorrow night slated for a visit to Baroness Bianca, since I suspected Murphy and Carmichael would be unable to drag any information out of the vampiress with a bulldozer. And now that I had Saturday night occupied with my date with Susan, I had to drive out to Lake Providence tonight and find out what I could. That didn't sit well with me. If there was any kind of magical activity, and Victor Sells was involved in it, I doubted very much it would be good. A wizard with newly discovered powers did not get up to anything good, unless they were engaged in these activities with someone from the White Council. Justin DuMorne did not count because he was _ex­_-Council. See? I always know what I'm talking about.

I chewed on some fries as I thought about my date with Susan. Every relationship I'd ever been in had not gone well, for one reason or another. Mostly it was because I was an agent for an ultra-secret magical organisation that made dating a very dangerous, very risky, and unworkable hobby. I'd met some really nice girls, too, but alas it was not meant to be. Susan dizzied me and made me look like an idiot in a way that hadn't happened to me in years, maybe even decades. She was probably going to try every trick she knew to drag information out of me for the Monday morning release of the _Arcane_. On the other hand, she was sexy, intelligent, and at least a little attracted to me. That indicated that more might happen than just talk and dinner. Didn't it? Post-midnight activity was still undecided at this time. But the real question was did I really want it to happen? A few years back the answer would have been simple. As an agent for _Tasogareru_, the only thing that mattered was completing the mission. Maybe afterward I would have risked such a venture as a date. I sighed. My skills were sharper than ever, but ever since leaving _Tasogareru_ I had stop thinking operationally and militaristically every moment of my life. I only used those mindsets during jobs. And I'd been in my fair share of miserable failure relationships. And by miserable failure, I meant it in every context. A lot of guys fail at the first few relationships. I'm just not sure many guys _kill_ their first loves.

I left McAnally's, after Mac had handed me a doggy bag with a grunt of "Mister", by way of explanation. My thoughts lingered on Susan a while longer before I shook myself off that train of thought. I had things I needed to do.

XXX

When I got home, Mister, my thirty pound plus cat, was nowhere to be seen. I put the food in his dish, grabbed my equipment, and left. He'd forgive me eventually. Walking back outside my apartment, I climbed into the Blue Beetle and set off for the Sells' lake house. Strictly speaking, the Beetle is no longer blue. Both doors have been replaced with two white ones and the front hatch with a green hood. Still, it's in perfect working condition. About the only thing I own that is. And I have the best mechanic. Mike does more than the job requires, for half the price, and best of all he asks no questions. He never asked just how I got the claw marks on both doors, or just what had melted my last hood. You can't pay for that kind of service.

I drove the Beetle smoothly down I-94, crossed briefly into Indiana, and then crossed the state line into Michigan proper. Driving toward Lake Michigan, I found myself in the Lake Providence area. It was a very rich suburb, and very expensive to own property there. Victor Sells must have been doing well in his last job to be able to afford something like this. Most houses had their gates on the right side of the road, away from the shore, but the Sells' house was on the left. I parked a few houses down, sliding to a slow stop between two houses. For a moment I just sat there, thinking. There were several ways to approach this, but finally I decided on the legal way. Monica Sells had only invited me to look around, not to strip search the entire area. Sighing, I got out of the Beetle and walked to the lake house, my hands in my duster pockets. I briefly thought about how much of an obvious target I was, walking down the road with the moon out, and just how unforgettable I was. It's not every day you see someone wearing an overlarge red fedora and red duster with mantle. But what can I say? I've got style.

When I got to the lake house, I took a moment to just look at it. My instincts were screaming at me, telling me to take cover. Something was awfully wrong. I got the sensation that I was being observed, and not in a nice way. I looked around briefly and noticed just how many windows still had lit lights. It was possible that a concerned neighbour had seen me and decided to watch and see what the hell this outsider was doing. It wasn't difficult to look conspicuous. I didn't ooze that moneyed air that accompanied belonging to such a community. Yeah. That must have been it.

I walked up the drive. It was big enough to host a five on five game of basketball, and the net was worn and sagged enough to show frequent usage. The house itself was raised a little above the ground, just in case the lake over flooded – which looked like a possibility, with the spring rains we were having. When in doubt, knock on the front door. So I walked up the stairs, straight to the door, and knocked. This would provide a good cover later, too, as well as ascertaining if there was someone inside. Victor might be entertaining a mistress, who might come to answer the door. Silence. I knocked again, and waited for five minutes, but there was no answer. I stepped off the porch and back onto the still damp ground. I frowned. The house didn't feel deserted. The opposite, in fact. I'd been on enough investigations, been in enough houses, to know how an empty house felt. My instinct told me there was someone inside, and it had never led me astray. That meant this person didn't want to be discovered. I walked around the house, my eyes roaming everywhere. All the curtains were draw, the windows firmly closed. The side and back doors, when I tried them, were locked. As I made one more circuit around the house, I noticed slight indentations in the ground. Crouching, I took my right hand out of my duster pocket. I'd put on my gloves back at my apartment. They were white leather, with intricate circle designs drawn on the palms and the backs in black. They were one of the few fully enchanted items I had. Enchantments cost a lot to make, but these gloves were worth it.

I placed my index finger into one of the indentations. I opened myself up to the world, drew on a trickle of power. This was delicate magic, magic I was naturally unsuited for. I am gifted and cursed with having just too much power. Controlling it finely is very tasking for me. If it weren't for my enchanted constructs, attempting this spell would have been nigh impossible for me. But thank heavens I was aware of my weaknesses and planned accordingly. I started humming softly as focused on the effect I was after. After a few seconds I drew in a deep breath, held it, and then let it out. I breathed out a fine steam, product of me breathing in the abundant water vapour in the air and then heating it a little. I felt my body temperature rise, then fall drastically, but I ignored it. It would only take a few minutes to recover fully. The steam I breathed out hung in front of me in a small cloud. I lifted my left hand and made a grabbing motion, accompanied with an effort of will. The steam was abruptly sucked into my fist with a whoosh of air. A bead of sweat formed on my forehead. The concentration required was greater than I had anticipated, even with my gloves amplifying my will. I took a deep, calming breath, and then opened my fist and softly blew out.

The effect was immediate, although not what I expected. The spell was simple enough in concept. As a wizard, I had the ability to focus on the psychic vibrations left by people. I had taken this ability and refined it. If I could catch on to the psychic impressions left by someone, and transfer those impressions to a more physically, sense-related, detectable presence, it would be much more useful. In this situation, I chose to transform the psychic impressions into a static, three-dimensional image. It was the only course with a chance of success. Because of the heavy spring rains, which were another form of running water, any recent and superficial psychic impressions left would have likely been washed away. But the footprint was a physical impression, and I could use it to amplify the psychic impressions. It was a long shot, after all it had rained heavily, and this spell, although simple in concept, was very fickle and dodgy in practise. Normally I would simple use enough will to try and manifest the psychic imprints, so the spell could work on any of my senses, but this time I was being a little more forceful. It might just short out and not work. Or the manifestation would be nonsense.

The latter happened. I frowned in frustration as I looked at the vision. It was constantly flickering, never staying static enough for me to discern anything. As I was about to let go of the spell, I noticed something. There were certain details of the vision that kept constant, although they too alternated from one to the next. A suspicion hit me. It had been raining. The imprints I could sense in the air were muddled. Any one could have walked here … or numerous people. It was highly unlikely, but it might just be true. After all, have you ever noticed that in the woods you always seem to step where the other person in front of you has, or pretty damn close. Maybe more than one person had stood there. But how was that of any help? Well, I could try to separate the different psychic energies, using traces of the owners' footprints as foci. Yeah. Harry Dresden, master of the subtle arts. But it was worth a try.

I looked down at the footprint, and by the light of the moon – I didn't want to make my own, too obvious – I finally made out three different treads. They were very faint, and I knew that if I wasn't careful with my finger or my power, I would destroy them and lose the potential information I stood to gain. I sighed and took a deep breath. This was going to hurt. To separate the psychic energies I had to delve into them, experience them. The difference in tone and emotion would hopefully be enough for me to get a clearer reading. I held out my left palm and closed my eyes. I reached out with my mind and felt the energies there. They were surprisingly strong. I fought hard to control my body as several sensations coursed through me. One sensation almost shocked me out of my trance and nearly broke the spell – I was hard. What the hell? This was going to be interesting. I don't know how long I crouched there, but after a while I opened my eyes. I formed a fist with my left hand and breathed steam into it. Taking in moisture, heating it, and breathing out steam is very difficult. Fortunately I am very good with fire magic, so the risk of burning and maybe killing myself was minimal (but not non-existent). Always living on the wild side, that's me. After I'd gathered enough steam, literally and figuratively, I opened my hand and blew out ad watched three images form.

The first was of a pony tailed man. He was medium height and would have been quite handsome if it weren't for the fact that his eyes, or at least the one I could see, were a bit pinched, making him look a tad dodgy. His other eye was behind a professional looking camera. I followed the lens and saw it was aimed at a window to the rear of the house. The curtains were closed. This guy had been feeling quite uncomfortable and anxious to leave, which must mean he had to have been there for a pressing reason. The next image was of a young looking man, possibly wearing a uniform. Because of the fact that the steam was white and afforded no colour details, I couldn't be sure what kind of uniform it was. I cursed at the spell's limitations. Because the source of the image was emotional, no factual details like printed company names was added to the images. Not unless that certain person was feeling quite loyal or angry with his workplace. The kid was wearing a cap so I couldn't see much of his face. The kid had been the one feeling aroused and uncertain, and he too was looking at the rear window. What the hell had Victor been up to? Looked like the mistress hunch was right on the mark, then. The photographer was probably hired by Monica herself to bring evidence of Victor's extra-marital activities. Poor woman. I'd have to give her the news tomorrow. I could make nothing of the third image. It was just a floating mass of steam. It was also a floating mass of enraged psychic imprint. The rage had been directionless and all consuming, so the psychic imprint had nothing physical to latch onto, no corporeal form to contain it. What would make a person feel that way?

I let the spell go and slumped down onto the ground. My forehead was beaded with sweat and I was trembling from the cold and the exertion. I wouldn't be trying that again in a hurry. This kind of spell would have been beyond me if it weren't for the gloves which enhanced my skill. The exhaustion caused by spell work was not only attributed to raw strength. In fact, spells that required more skill and sensitivity were harder to work and maintain than spells that only required minimal skill and lots of power. Great wizards were the ones that could combine skill and strength into effortless power, the wizards who could incinerate buildings and beings with but a wave of their hand and a whispered word. Wizards like that were the Yodas of the supernatural community, while wizards like me were the Anakin Skywalkers. While I was down there recuperating, I noticed a red gleam on the ground. I reached for the object and my hand encased a cylindrical plastic case, like the ones used to put undeveloped film in. This must have belonged to the photographer. But what could make him leave it behind? Since it was dry and didn't have any dried water marks on it, it must have remained untouched by the rain. That meant that if the owner had held it, he might have left enough residues for me to be able to track him with a spell. Just maybe.

When I had regained enough composure, I went back to the Beetle, and again I got the feeling I was being watched. Someone was in that house alright. I put the case away in a plastic bag where it wouldn't be contaminated. And then I got out some honey, a slice of bread, a tub of yogurt, a plate, and went to the shore to capture me a faerie. The moon was out. Perfect. No faerie can resist a nice, full moon, especially the little pixie I was about to call. And I he came through like he usually did, he would have some answers. No amount of locked doors, shut windows and closed drapes could keep pesky, nosey and mischievous faeries out. Take it from me, I know. I went into the shade of the trees, set my tools down, and began the process of summoning a faerie.

Right, Faerie Summoning and Trapping 101. The first thing you need is to draw a circle. After you draw the circle, you need to exert a little of your will to close the circle. By closing the circle, you shut out the random magical energies in the world, which makes it easier to work your spell as there is no chance of it being disrupted. One a circle is closed, only mortal flesh can break it physically, which meant that once I had summoned my faerie, it could go in, and once it fell into my trap, it couldn't leave. I would be the only one able to set it free … for a price, of course. For the trap to work, though, the faerie would need to have some of my blood. I took off my left glove, bit the thumb, and let a drop of blood fall on the bread. I turned the bread around so the faerie wouldn't see it and suspect a trap. I opened the yogurt and honey put it all on the plate before closing the circle. Now, the last thing needed was to actually summon the faerie to the trap. I would need the faerie's true name, and no, I am not going to write down what it is. You have no idea what I went through to get it. This particular name was quite beautiful, a rolling wave of syllables. I only exerted enough will for the faerie, which went by the name of Toot-Toot, to feel the summons and come wondering by. If I exerted too much will the faerie would definitely smell a rat.

It took about twenty minutes, but I finally saw a glow gliding over Lake Michigan. At first it looked like a reflection of the moon, but at the faerie came closer I could discern the dragonfly wings. The faerie was covered in a luminous glow, and as it hovered around my trap, nervous eyes casting everywhere, it sneezed. Faerie dust showered over the food, and for a moment I panicked. Faerie dust could interact adversely with my circle. But luck was on my side and there wasn't enough to interfere. After a few more seconds Toot darted onto the plate, a six inch mass of hunger and greed. He dipped the bread into the yogurt and scoffed it down noisily. The moment he ate the piece with my blood, the trap was sprung. A silent dome went up around Toot, shutting him in a silent hum of power. The effect was instantaneous. Toot screamed in rage, a sound a little bit too loud and scary to be coming from such a little creature. I smiled and walked toward him as he tried in vain to escape.

I was about to get answers.


End file.
